The Lost and Found Principle
by stealingthestars
Summary: When Roy Harper finds himself in a tight spot and ends up in Central City, Team Flash realizes that being normal might be a little harder for him than they thought. Or, in which Roy has a hero complex and a knack for trouble, Cisco has a brilliant idea, and a young ex-sidekick finds a home in an unexpected place.


"you have to get lost before you can find yourself."

-john green

* * *

 **January 5th / 12:37**

 **THE FIRST THING ROY IS AWARE OF** when he comes to is the smell.

It's familiar, maybe too much so, and it hits him with a strength that makes his stomach crawl into his throat. He'd know that smell anywhere; he wonders faintly whether or not the blood is his.

The answer comes not long after, as a sudden wave of pain crashes bodily into him and he clamps his teeth down over his tongue to keep from crying out. There's white-hot fire in his left leg; he knows this feeling. He's been shot. Strangely-or perhaps not, considering his background-he regards this realization with not much more than a twang of irritation.

He's getting sloppy.

Five guys, two guns, an alleyway. It would've been a regular night for him in Star. But Hub City is a quiet place where this sort of thing is a rare occurrence, and for the most part, the police always have it handled. Except tonight, when Roy could hear the girl's screams from his fire escape and he _couldn't just stand there._

She'd gotten away, he had made sure of that. But he was...severely out of practice. They'd gotten the jump on him, and he couldn't hold his own like he used to. Not anymore. A few bruises throb, making their presence known.

 _What would Oliver say?_ he wonders bitterly.

But part of him knows. Don't be sorry, be smart, his ex-mentor would tell him.

So as his eyes adjust to the darkness, he takes in his surroundings. The walls are tight around him. And the floor is moving, bouncing almost rhythmically. He's in the back of a truck, probably armored, judging by the heaviness of the wheels against the ground and the dull sound he gets as he taps his fist against the wall. There are a few crates piled next to him-what they're filled with, he'll figure out later. His hands are bound together with a zip-tie, and his pocketknife is gone, but they've left everything else. Including his shoes.

 _Idiots,_ he thinks, and almost wants to smile. He catches himself- _save the celebration, you're still sitting in the back of an armored car with a bullet hole in your leg._ Not for long, though.

His hands fumble to untie his shoelaces in the dark and he works a lace through the zip-tie, gripping it between his teeth and pulling it through. He ties it to the lace of his other sneaker, so that the little strip of white plastic is strung between the two.

Warily, he thinks of his stinging leg. _This is going to hurt._

He tears a small strip from his shirt and shoves it in his mouth, biting down on it and taking a deep breath before moving his legs back and forth in fast motions-or at least, as fast as he can get with a hole in his thigh-cries of pain muffled by the cloth. In a few short, but somehow very, very long, moments, the friction wears down the plastic binding and the laces cut through the zip-tie, leaving his hands free.

Dizzy, a dull throb echoing in the back of his head, Roy sighs in relief and slowly moves his now unbound hand down his leg. The bullet entered a few inches above his left knee, and he recalls vividly that night in the alleyway, when Oliver had shot him in the leg in almost the exact same spot a lifetime ago. Although, this hurts significantly more, and the arrow had hurt a _lot._

The leg of his jeans is soaked; he wonders how long he was out, more importantly, how much blood he's already lost. Grunting softly, he slides his leather jacket, then his hoodie off-he's _not_ ruining them, damn it-and tears the sleeve off his shirt. The bullet can wait, at least, for now-he's more concerned with stopping the determined flow of crimson from his thigh.

Once he's tied a sufficiently tight knot-and he fondly thinks back to the memory of Diggle teaching him how to patch himself up-he exhales slowly and lets his eyes wander back to the wooden crates stacked next to him. They're not chained and locked, just nailed down, and it doesn't take much more than a few splinters for Roy to get the nails on the closest one out. He pulls one of the wooden panels away, examining it and wondering if he can use it. _Use everything, right?_ He wonders faintly if Oliver would be proud.

 _Roy Harper, always looking for approval, even when there's no one to give it._

He scowls to himself and pushes away that bitter, lonely voice that's been nagging him ever since he left, instead training his focus back on the crate. He pulls the wooden top away to reveal-surprise, surprise-bags upon bags of white powder.

So the men are dealers. Big-time ones, judging by the amount of boxes loaded in the truck. He can't say this comes as a shock. But what do they want with him?

His mind conjures up a few answers, none of them very pleasant.

He scoots against the wall and leans against the cold metal, letting adrenaline and his whirring thoughts keep him awake even as his head spins. The last thing he wants to do right now is fall asleep and lose the only chance he has at catching them off guard. And so, he waits.

* * *

It's hours later when the sound of sirens rings in his ears. A swell of relief builds inside him, followed quickly by surprise-he can't remember the last time he'd been glad to hear the police. The joy is short-lived, however, as realization hits him; he won't get very far on his bad leg but he _can't get caught._ Or all of this will be for absolutely nothing.

But for now, Roy focuses on the matter at hand. He listens carefully; there's muffled yelling outside of the truck and then, dull clangs of bullets against metal that come in rapid succession and just keep coming.

There's a bang and the truck lurches, skidding sideways and throwing him into the wall. A loud screech comes and the vehicle stops moving altogether. He's guessing that they blew out a tire.

 _Good._ He's ready. He throws his jacket and hoodie back on, curling his hands into fists around the wooden board and holding his breath, waiting, waiting...

There's an angry grating sound of metal as the door lifts open. Immediately, he lunges forward, brandishing his weapon like a baseball bat and bringing it down on the head of his first attacker. The man barely gets a chance to yell before he crumples, out like a light.

A little triumphant roar in his chest, Roy leaps nimbly out of the back of the truck, putting all his weight on his good leg. It almost buckles beneath him, and for a moment, he sees stars, before blinking furiously. _Just stick it out, Harper,_ he tells himself. _A few blocks and you're home free._

Sort of.

In the back of his mind, he hears scattered yelling; he doesn't know what they're saying, doesn't care. He just runs-well, as much as he can, half-dragging his injured leg behind him. A bullet glances past his ear, close enough that he can feel the tiny rush of wind, and then suddenly, there are two men in front of him, and his stomach drops.

 _Shit_ , his mind supplies.

They're not holding guns, though, which reassures him. It's just two of them. Piece of cake.

The taller man rushes him, hands outstretched, but Roy sidesteps neatly and swings his fist into his assailant's back. One hand on his chest, one on his back, and the ex-sidekick flips him expertly; the man goes sprawling to the ground as his partner shoots forward. He's much faster, and his fist collides with Roy's jaw. His head snaps back and he ducks out of the way of another punch, wincing. The next one hits his stomach and he feels the air leave his body, suddenly remembering Oliver's words from when he was still just another kid on the streets.

 _You can take a beating, there's a difference._

He's not that kid anymore.

Heart thudding in his ears, he catches the man's next punch in his hand and pulls down; there's a sickening pop and a cry of pain. Dislocation? _Probably,_ Roy thinks, slamming his fist across the man's face and knocking him out cold.

 _Yeah. Cake._

He doesn't stop to admire his handiwork, his only thought being to _get the hell out of there_. He starts to run, pushing away the protests from his leg. _Get out, get out, get out. Don't get caught._ It's like a mantra to him, one he's been repeating his whole life.

Then his eyes find the cop cars, and he does a double take. Hesitating, he reads the letters on the side, twice to make sure he's not imagining it. CCPD. Central City Police Department. He's in Central City. He wants to whoop with joy. Central City means Barry, means Cisco and Caitlin and S.T.A.R. Labs. Central City means people he can trust. Hope comes quickly; his head begins to race with the thoughts of finding them and getting their help and finally, _finally_ being around people who _know_ him again-

And then pain explodes in his right shoulder.

Roy's brain goes fuzzy. He's dimly aware of the bullet hitting him, and blood rushing down his chest and he thinks about how his jacket must be ruined, and then wonders why that's his first thought. He wants to bring his hand up, staunch the blood, assess the wound, do what Oliver would do. But he feels detached, very far away. He's not sure if this is a good thing or not.

Before he can decide, however, a blur of gold lightning streaks across his black-spotted vision. Relief spreads through him almost instantly; he's swaying on his feet and there's so much blood but he's in Central and there's another hero and so he's going to be okay. "B-" he starts to say, and catches himself before he lets the name slip. "Flash!"

His voice is barely above a hoarse whisper, but the speedster's head snaps in his direction, and Roy watches Barry's eyes get comically wide behind his cowl. He swears he'd be laughing if everything didn't _hurt so goddamn much._

The hero sputters for a second, incredulity and confusion and worry all settling over his features at once. Finally, his voice strung with disbelief, _"Roy?"_

There's a little flicker of happiness in the young archer's chest, short-lived as his vision blurs and his legs begin to give out on him. Somehow, he manages a weak grin.

"Right on time, Speedy," he slurs, and promptly passes out.

* * *

 **hello, readers!**

 **so, welcome to my new story! i've never really worked with multi-chapter fics before, but i had this idea and i wanted to give it a shot. this story will eventually include the legends (if it follows the plan i have for it, but hardly anything ever does) but this site only lets me pick two fandoms, and first come, first serve, right? i'll add more characters as they come along, as well. anyway, i'll admit this right now, my idea for where this story is going is limited. i'm just kinda figuring it out as i go along (my entire life) so bear with me, and i'd love to hear your thoughts of how i can improve/what i should include. anyway, i'll try to update as soon as possible, but with school and everything i'm not sure how soon that will be. but i hope you enjoyed this first part, and i'll see you guys next time!**

 **~umana**

 **disclaimer: i do not own arrow, flash, or legends of tomorrow**


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